The Shepherd and the Sheepdog

Deep in the woods there lived a girl named Yrsa. She lived with her mother there for many years, never meeting her father and only ever hearing his name alongside gripes and curses. On their property was a pond, a mill and a field. Her mother, caring for her daughter in a way that only a mother can, spent her days tending to the wheat in the field, milling the wheat into grain, and fishing in the pond for whatever food she could gather. She never allowed her daughter to do such hard work, no matter how much she asked, and insisted on doing it all on her own. This was not for hatred or neglect, but because these habits were so deep within her that she could not teach another how to do them, for she hardly knew how she managed herself. Instead, Ysra learned to cook and preserve meat, to make grain into bread and barley into beer. She learned to cook, to clean, and to care for her mother and her weary body. But Yrsa, as young as she was, could not fully comprehend the tiredness of her mother's body until it collapsed. Until Yrsa, all by herself, tended to her mother in what became her deathbed, and buried her by the pond where she had drank beer in the company of the moon's reflection.

Yrsa, all by herself, didn't know how to fish, or how to sow the earth, or how to turn its bounties into grain. What was worse is that her mother, in her inexperience, had not been able to properly reap her harvests herself: the soil had grown weary of wheat and barley, and there had never been less seeds in the silo. She scraped by, but starvation fueled exhaustion, and exhaustion fueled starvation, and Yrsa would soon collapse in her home, left for dead, all by herself.

By luck, chance, and the grace of the powers that be, a traveling lumberjack came across the cottage while lost in the woods, and was able to save her life, sharing his rations and nursing her back to health. But he could not heal the weary soil, and neither could he stay for long, for his own family waited for him. He did invite this girl to be his daughter, and to come with him, but the echoes of her mother still reverberated in that home, and Yrsa was wary of men; remembering the stories of her own father. She was reluctant to leave the only home she'd ever known, no matter how cold it had become since her arms were too weak to gather and chop wood for the fire, and so the lumberjack reluctantly left her alone, returning through the forest to his own home and hearth.

She would not forget his kindness, and, in the coldness of her home, found herself longing desperately for the company of another, especially as the winter neared, leaving her no ability to feed herself with her meager means and nonexistent stores. She knew she would surely die if she stayed, and so, as the cold nips of winter began to appear in the Northern skies beyond the wood, she donned her scarf and set off blindly with whatever she could carry, hoping for the best.

But the best is rarely what one finds alone in the woods on the cusp of winter. With no knowledge of hunting or foraging, nor any map or compass to guide her way, she became lost, and for three days and two nights she wandered without reward. On the dusk of the third day, she caught sight of smoke over the trees and hills, and made course to get there as soon as possible. Even going as fast as she could on her weak and weary legs, she only made it to the source after nightfall, after the sun had gone down but before the moon could rise, leaving everything in inky blackness except for the orange light of fire that cut between the brush as she approached.

The fire laid in a clearing. It was a small but healthy light that illuminated the tall grass around it and the cottage behind it, although no light came from within. She wondered how this could be so: how a campfire could be lit without someone to attend to it. She saw no one nearby, and creeped carefully and fearfully towards it: she was very cold and had not slept in a bed for two nights and so was desperate enough to set her fears aside. But as she approached, she caught a shadow in the grass and froze in place. It creeped towards her as she was towards it; it was a lupine shape with tall ears and a shaggy coat.

There was nothing it could be but a wolf. She turned and ran, as she had done from wolves before, but unlike before there was no shelter waiting for her. In her weakness, she soon found that she could run no more, and hurried to climb a nearby tree. There she waited. Soon the wolf came along in as much a hurry as her, and saw her in the tree.

"You there!" The wolf called to her, "Why do you run from me?"

"Of course I run! You are a wolf, are you not?"

"A wolf? Tell me girl, have you seen a wolf before?"

"I have. They've chased me before, just as you have."

"Ah, I see. But has one ever caught you?"

"No. I've always been too fast. They stopped their chase the moment I was within a stone's throw of my home, never daring any farther."

"Then you have not seen a wolf, girl. You cannot see something until it has approached and entered the light. These wolves did not approach because if they were in the light, you would see them for what they were, but I have come to invite you into the light. Surely a girl such as yourself is very weary, very cold, and very hungry. I do not have much, but on my honor as my Master's loyal hound, I will share what I have with the needy such as yourself."

"I do not believe you. You only wish to get me down from my tree so that you can eat me as you surely have with other cold, weary and weak girls who have heard your lies."

"There is no difference between an enemy army and a friendly one while it sits on the horizon, nor any difference between danger and salvation. The difference is only made clear once it has reached you in full. With this distance and this darkness, you will not see me for who I am, so I will invite you to the fire. I will go there myself and wait for you, as a wolf would never do."

"And why should I believe you?"

"I can give you no reason in this darkness at this distance, except that you will have to come down from your tree eventually, and when you do, it would be better and safer around the fire than in these wild woods."

With this, the wolf retreated back from where it had come, towards the orange glimmer that was just barely visible from her view atop the tree, leaving her alone, cold, and afraid. She mulled her options carefully, but would realize that a wolf would never truly approach a fire, nor invite her into the light. Even if the wolf were a wolf in fact, she would only need to reach the fire without him catching her. In that light and warmth, she would be far safer than in the woods or in a tree, and although the path was fraught, it was likely the only one to survival. So she climbed carefully down from her tree and snuck back towards the clearing, ready at any point to sprint. Once the campfire was in sight, she rushed forward, charging through the tall grass, ready for the wolf's attack, but none ever came. She reached the fire safely, and there on the other side was a dog, a loyal hound, all by himself.

He raised to meet her, "Ah, there you are."

"Yes, I am sorry Mister Hound. I should have believed you from the start."

"No, my dear. You reacted as anyone would. You should not be ashamed of your fear, but proud of your courage. You took a chance at life where others would run headlong into assured death. That is worth praising. And since it seems we should be spending some time together, perhaps you would tell me your name?"

"My name is Yrsa. My mother told me it was the name of a loyal hound she once had herself. And you?"

"My Master always called me Shepherd, as ironic as that is."

"And why would that be strange? Why should a loyal sheepdog like you be called anything but 'Shepherd'?"

"Because my Master is the shepherd of these fields. He is the true shepherd, while I am shepherd in name alone, though I still try to fulfill his duties in his absence."

"Well, I must say Mr. Shepherd, you have shepherded me quite well, and I see no better name for you than that. Perhaps that is why your Master called you Shepherd, so that you would never forget what it was you were supposed to do."

"Perhaps, though for fear of sounding prideful, I will not say that is what he intended. Only he knows what he intended. I can do nothing but guess."

"And where is your Master now? And where are the sheep? You say he is a shepherd, but I see no animals other than yourself, Mr. Shepherd. Where have they all gone?"

"They have gone to the same place. Our prized ewe once ran off into the darkness of the woods, and he set off after her, leaving me in charge in his absence, hence why things have fallen so desperately apart."

The cottage was certainly in poor repair; the lawn needed to be cut, the garden needed to be tended and the fence around the property had fallen so completely apart that it was no longer there in some areas, including the area where she had entered the clearing, which is why she hadn't noticed it before. Not wanting to upset her benefactor, she turned the conversation to happier things.

"Still, you've managed to keep this fire. I'm surprised you could start such a warm fire as this with nothing but your paws."

"Ah, and there is my secret, my dear. This fire is not mine. He lit it for me before he left, and told me to keep it burning. I have no ability to start fires with these paws of mine, as you say, but I can take the sticks and twigs and fallen branches and carry them here to keep it fed."

"But what about when it rains, or when it snows?"

"Then I work harder, dear. For this fire may never go out. If it did, I could not start it again on my own."

"But you are a dog, aren't you Shepherd? Your coat should keep you warm, and your eyes can see better in the dark than mine, so is the fire really necessary?"

"It is not for myself, my dear Yrsa. Fire creates smoke. Once my Master has found our prized ewe, he will rely on this smoke to find his way home. In the meantime, the smoke will gather others, not unlike yourself, who desire warmth and light just as you do, and these people will be good people who can care for me as I do for them, for a wolf would never approach the light as you have. In this way, I keep myself safe, and I also keep others safe, which is the true purpose of the fire."

"But why would the wolves not approach?" She looked around, as she had excited her own fear, "Wouldn't the light attract predators? Would they not come to pick off their prey?"

"They surely do, dear Yrsa. They often gather around the edges, waiting. Once you set a fire, you draw attention to yourself, including among the wolves, but they will not approach. This is why, once a fire has been set, the most dangerous thing you can do is to wander beyond the light, or to let it be extinguished. To walk among wolves is one thing, but once you've set yourself apart from them, they will wait patiently for the opportunity to destroy you."

"But why do they fear the light so? What is it that keeps them at bay when they could attack us as well here as anywhere else?"

"The light of the fire reveals the reality of themselves and their actions. They are forced to watch as they spill innocent blood and take innocent life. In the darkness, they can more easily pretend that what they do is not what they're doing, and so they fear the light. What's more, we can see clearly what they are: they are ugly, malicious, mortal monsters. In the light we know that we cannot trust them, and their words, however sweet, become meaningless with the teeth shining through. We know more that they are not something to be feared blindly as some creature in the shadows, but a mortal creature like you or I: something that can be killed as easily as it tries to kill us, and there is nothing a wolf fears more than the death of its own pride. Pride in ignorance of their actions, or in their existence as a creature of the night. There is another reason as well-"

Shepherd pawed at the ashes around the edges of the fire, scattering embers.

"We may use the fire as a weapon. We know of it, and how it works, but they do not. They know that this fire is our secret, our weapon, and fear it just as they ought to and are right to. This is also why they want to destroy us in its light and warmth so desperately: because this fire is their weakness, and its secrets must be purged from the world if they are to live as they wish to. This is why the most dangerous wolf is a blind one. If he cannot see the light, then he cannot see himself, nor his actions, nor the truths and dangers that the fire uncovers. Not only will he not be deterred, but he will be even more savage than his peers, for cleverness is a kind of intelligence at least, but ignorance is the death of reason."

Yrsa was amazed, "Tell me, Mr. Shepherd, how is it that you're so wise? In all my years with my mother, I can say that truer words were never spoken."

"Ah, and there is my secret, my dear. Your flattery warms my weary heart, but this wisdom is not mine. I only repeat the words of my Master, who has never once led me astray. Still, I am very glad that his words make sense to you regardless. If they serve you half as well as they have served me, then you will surely have a good life, though not always a pleasant one."

"And why not?"

"Sometimes we wish that we were wolves. Sometimes we wish we could be the monsters in the dark: fueling our desires no matter how wild or vicious they may be, and using the cover of night to disguise the truth from others and especially ourselves. At these times, we are often called to kill ourselves as we would these wolves, and to suffer with grace as those dastardly parts of us wither and die in agony. It is neither easy nor pleasant, but it is the cost of a good life, and nothing else will do. That is the secret of the fire. If it went out, I'd be nothing but a wolf myself, and no longer the loyal hound of my Master."

"I think you deserve more credit than you give to yourself, Mr. Shepherd. It seems to me that you are very wise indeed, and I am very glad to have met you tonight. I should under any circumstance, I think, but these especially bad times have been made all the lighter by you and your kindness. I very much want to hear more of your wisdom, but alas," Yrsa yawned, "I have journeyed without rest for very long, and I'm very tired."

"I suppose you would be, and you have every right to be. It is good to rest when you're tired, and especially at night."

"I don't suppose that's another of your master's sayings?"

"It very much is. Would you like to hear it?"

"Verily."

Shepherd smiled as much as a dog could and recited the words his Master had spoken long ago, "When the sun is high, half your work should be done. When it sets, all that needs to be done should be done. When the moon rises, you may do as you please, so long as it does not impair the work of the next day, and you do not leave the light of the fire. This is why it is good that, when the moon rises, you be tired: firstly because it shows you have completed your work for the day, and secondly because a mind awake at night is doomed to wander too far from the light."

Yrsa yawned again, "That sounds like a very hard way to live."

"It is, my dear, but it has many rewards: such are the fruits of good labor. This is also why we rest, so that our good labor may be made better by our wakefulness."

With this Yrsa and Shepherd went to bed. Of all the places in the cottage, the bed was the least dusty, as Shepherd was still making use of it. Once it was made, the two embraced one another as trusted friends and fell asleep in the comfort of each other's warmth.

Yrsa remained with Shepherd for two weeks. In this time, he did his best to teach her what her mother could not. He could not teach her to hunt or to fish or to farm, as his paws were not made to use the same tools that humans used, but he did impart onto her the knowledge he'd received from his Master, especially ensuring she knew how to forage for food in the late Autumn, early Winter weather, and that she knew how to keep herself warm and sheltered in her travels. Once they both were sure that she would be safe, she set off on her journey once more, with whatever provisions he could offer her, and they said farewell on good terms, and though neither ever knew what came of the other, neither ever forgot the other, either.

It was only that night, as she camped alone with a fire all her own, that she realized what he had done. Leaving the security of a fire at night was the most dangerous thing one with a fire could do, and yet it was exactly what Shepherd had done for her. He had set himself on the line without her ever realizing it, and without him ever feeling a need to hold it over her. With this realization, she knew with certainty that he was a friend, and that she was better for having met him, not because of what he did, but because of who he was: a loyal hound if there ever was one.

...

It was a long and hard winter that year, and Shepherd, all by himself, suffered greatly. There was once or twice that the fire almost gave out, and once or twice that his efforts to keep it lit meant sacrificing means for his own survival: food, water, shelter. No visitors came, none to keep him company, and he satisfied himself with his fire, all by himself.

When Spring finally came, it was a blossoming one. The ice and snow melted, leaving plenty for the trees and flowers, and the forest was soon alight in a rainbow of color as petals budded and the very beginnings of fruit and nuts made themselves apparent. The squirrels left their knots, the weasels left their burrows, and the wolves weren't quite so savage as they are when food is scarce. On one such day of rest from his good labor, Shepherd laid by the fire, enjoying its warmth in the midst of a brisk early morning, and letting the crackling and ebbing of the flames sooth his soul. It was then that his houndish ears heard another crackling at the edge of the glade and found a shape stepping over what remained of the fence around the property.

It was the shepherd, the Master, the true shepherd whereas the dog was only named as such. And over this shepherd's shoulders was the most beautiful sheep: a ewe with a coat as white and pure as the clouds above; a sheep so prized that she had all this glade to herself before she wandered away all that time ago.

It was a joyous reunion, and soon these three sat by the fire that Shepherd had worked so hard and grown gray hairs to maintain, with the shepherd in the middle, his hound on one side, and his sheep on the other.

"You've done well, Shepherd, to have kept my fire for so long."

"Please, Master, it was the least I could've done. How could I be so deserving of praise when everything else has already fallen to the elements?"

"Because this fire is what let us come home to you, Shepherd, and what allowed others to keep it with you in the meantime. This fire was the most important thing in all the glade, and you kept it valiantly in all the time we've been gone. Don't think that I don't know how much time has passed, or how hard it was for you."

"It was a long time, Master. Must it really have been that long?"

The Master petted the ewe on the head, "If it could've been any less, then wouldn't I have come back much sooner? I have not kept us apart any longer than necessary, and since we are all back together, tell me, Shepherd, was it worth the wait?"

"It was, Master."

"And tell me, my prized lamb, are you sorry for wandering, and are you happy to finally have returned? Are you grateful that our hound has so wonderfully kept the fire in our absence?"

"I am, Master."

"Then we are all in agreement. So let us put this ordeal behind us, and make this place into our home once again."

And so the hound laid his head on one of his Master's knees, and the ewe laid her head upon the other, and the two faced each other with joy in their eyes, united in their Master's embrace, for he loved them both equally. Soon, that place would become home once again, but it would not happen that very day, for that day was a day for rest, and the good work would begin tomorrow.

-END-